Sweet Charade
by kateandsomebooks
Summary: The Master x Martha Set during The Last of the Time Lords. Martha Jones has been gone for nearly a year. What happens when she is captured a few weeks before the countdown and held captive by the one man she hates above all?... Or does she?
1. Above the storm

This is my first serious fic, and my first Doctor Who fanfic, so bear with me everyone. Anyway, fanfics about this pairing are far and few between, so I decided to contribute a little. Set somewhere around 'The Last of the Time Lords'.

----

It was raining.

He could see it quite clearly from the window of his office.

Not the rain, of course, but the dark grey, nearly black clouds beneath his floating haven told of nothing else.

That was partly why he liked being up here, above the clouds: blue sky the whole time.

If he had wanted to be deeper, he would have connected the fact that he liked to see people suffer with his enjoyment of watching rainfall whilst he was completely dry.

But he had never been a very deep person.

Depth was pointless, when everyone around you was shallow.

He paced around the office, the harsh winter sunlight streaming through his windows, drumming his fingers subconsciously on anything he could find- the desk, the walls, the window sill, it didn't matter.

He didn't need to consciously drum his fingers any more to know that he was doing it. It had become a habit. No, more than a habit, an obsession.

He did not have many obsessions, and the ones he did have puzzled him, for they were mostly nonsensical and fairly useless.

Just like this blasted drumming, which never stopped.

Like the constantly blue sky and the continuous sunlight, it only stopped when he was asleep at night, when he dreamed of nothing.

He never had dreams, and had no particular desire for any. Foolish, fantastical, _human_ things they were, and he had no wish to have his mind contaminated by anything even remotely human.

He checked his wrist watch for the fifth time that half hour. His daily messenger was late.

Probably the rain.

He stopped beside the window and looked down.

The earth was concealed by the dark, menacing clouds.

Every now and then distant flashes from somewhere in their depths would illuminate them for a few seconds, and then vanished again.

Yes, that was it; the weather.

He gave an impatient sigh and drummed on the window sill with renewed agitation.

_Tap tap tap tap_

Where was his messenger?

_Tap tap tap tap_

He checked his watch again. It had only been a minute or so since he had last checked it, but it seemed like an hour to him.

_Tap tap tap tap_

He sighed. He was a patient man; he had waited a long time since arriving in modern day London till finally capturing the Doctor and his little band. A couple of extra minutes were nothing to him.

_Tap tap tap tap_

_Tap tap tap tap_

He turned around. The last set of taps had not been him; they had been someone knocking at the door.

About time too.

"Come in," he said curtly.

A young, thin faced man came in, hair and coat soaking wet, looking terrified.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Sir," the young man stammered desperately. "It was a difficult journey from earth back up here, it's quite a storm down there, Sir, you see?"

"I don't care about your excuses, James," spat the older man. "Just don't let it happen again."

"No Sir, of course not." The man called James said, both relief and fear in his voice.

"Any news?"

"There was a- a riot in Cardiff last night," James stuttered. "We found out about a secret organisation plotting against you. Called themselves Torchwood apparently," the young man gave a small, nervous laugh. "We took care of them."

"I should hope so," the other man replied, before repeating a question he asked every morning without fail. "And… any news on Martha Jones?"

"No Sir, not anything."

"Good. Right, well, get out then. And for God's sake get some dry clothes. I won't have people dripping around here like some sort of walking puddle."

"Yes Sir, sorry Sir, of course Sir," the young man said, and half ran out of the room.

The doors closed, and he was left alone in his office.

No news on Martha Jones.

He was expecting such an answer, of course. There never was any news about her at all. Oh, he had heard legends of course. He wasn't so detached from the planet beneath him that he hadn't heard the legends. They were sometimes brought to him by young messengers like James, desperate to please him a little.

But these legends meant nothing to him. Humans were like that, they invented stories to help comfort them, they clung tightly onto any strand of hope that they could.

What a foolish race they were.

He gave a slightly disgruntled snort.

It was raining beneath him, and there was no news on Martha Jones.

Despite there never being any news, he always asked. Every day, religiously, obsessively, and not even he knew why.

As was aforesaid, the Master had few obsessions, but the ones he did have puzzled him. And this one puzzled him most of all.

----

So, first chapter. What do you all think? The next chapter will probably be following Martha and what she's up to. Please review, whether you liked it or not... I've got special time cookies!


	2. Beneath the storm

This chapter is from Martha's point of view. Again, this is set some time around 'The Last of the Time Lords' so Martha would be travelling. Enjoy, everyone!

----

An icy gust of wind rattled through the building and whistled away, fading as it went.

It was going to rain.

The first drop found a way through the hole ridden roof and fell on her cheek with all the coldness and sharpness of an icicle.

Martha Jones woke with a start.

She sat up on the small, rough bed sharply and felt in her pocket for the Tardis key, a habit which she had grown used to by now.

It was there all right.

She took it out and looked at it in the little light that is available at twelve in the morning.

She held it in her hand, felt its coldness. It was part of the Tardis, and yet there it was: so small and simple, just a key.

Martha put the key back in the pocket of her jacket and hugged herself to keep warm.

Midnight in Brussels in the middle of winter.

It didn't get much colder than this here.

The rain was falling heavily now. Not only could she hear it hammering on the roof above her head, but she could feel it, as the several drops which managed to get passed the once well kept tiles, lashed at her skin.

She was up in the attic- the coldest part of the house, but the safest by far. She shouldn't complain, she reasoned with herself, the poor people who lived here had offered her shelter and the little food they had, just for the exchange of her legendary story.

Martha had been weak when she practically fell through the door the previous night, but she was never too weak to tell the people she met the story of the Doctor.

She felt a choking sob rise in her throat as she thought of the Doctor, and felt herself taking out the Tardis key again, just to hold it.

It had been nearly a year since she left that God forsaken place and followed the Doctor's instructions. She had travelled nearly everywhere- America, Australia, Russia, Asia, and most of Europe. Tomorrow she would set off again, across the edge of the land and into France, where she hoped she would set sail across the Channel and back into Britain.

It was five weeks until the countdown.

She felt a small shiver of fear and excitement. That would be the test. She had it all planned out. It was all going to work, it had to.

She felt a new wave of fury surge through her as she thought of _him_: The man who had caused all of this, who had come to their planet and taken control. Martha hated the Master with every ounce of her being.

Whenever the television was on in wherever she happened to be, she always saw him there, lording it over human kind, acting as though it were all a light hearted game, which he was winning.

_Not for long, though. _

Martha allowed herself a small grin. The tables were going to turn very soon.

Soon she would be back in Britain, back in London. Soon everything would fall into place.

And with these thoughts, and a smile on her face, Martha Jones lay back down to sleep, the rain falling around her.

-

"Harry, dear… are you all right?"

He knew who it was even without turning around. Not only was Lucy the only woman on board who called him 'dear', but she was also the only person who continued to call him by his fake first name.

The Master heard his wife walk up behind him and touch him gently on the shoulder.

He didn't respond, and continued to gaze out of the window at the orange sunset.

"Harry?"

He turned towards her, and smiled.

"Yes dear?" he asked, giving her a broad grin.

"You… you don't quite seem yourself," Lucy replied, looking concerned, her blonde hair falling over a short black dress.

"Just a bit excited, is all," the Master said, pulling her close to him. "Soon, my darling, all of this universe will be ours."

"Five weeks," agreed Lucy, nodding. "Just five."

"Five weeks indeed," the Master agreed, pulling his wife towards him and kissing her.

She slipped a hand into his before pulling away.

"Time for bed, don't you think?" She smiled.

The Master looked a little surprised.

"It's not even nine o' clock yet," he said.

"Well, too early for _sleeping_, yes."

The Master grinned as he caught her meaning.

"I'll be there in a minute," he said.

His wife nodded and left the room, the automatic doors sliding shut behind her.

He turned back to the window as the doors closed, and looked out at the sky, red with the winter sunset.

"Five weeks," he said to himself quietly. "Five weeks, and where are you, Martha Jones? You'd better hurry up, whatever you're planning to do."

----

Next chapter coming soon. What do you all think? Reviews are greatly appreciated whatever you think of the story.


	3. Far from the storm

Chapter three is here at last. Sorry about the long wait! This chapter is the first time in my fic where the Martha and Master sort of interact.

----

The Master woke with a start.

Someone was moving around in the small kitchen nearby.

He pulled a dressing gown around his body and stood up, before walking into the room to catch the intruder.

He gave a small sigh of relief as he saw that it wasn't an intruder at all; it was his wife making a cup of tea.

"Lucy, what are you doing?" He asked sleepily.

"Bad dream," she replied.

"Really?" The subject of dreams interested him, especially bad ones.

"What was it like?" He asked.

Lucy frowned slightly and sighed.

"It wasn't anything, don't worry about it," she said, before crossing the room and sitting at the little table. "I think I'll stay up a bit longer."

The Master nodded absent mindedly, not really caring whether or not Lucy stayed awake. His mind was on the subject of dreams. They must be powerful things to make humans too scared to fall asleep.

What if… No, he couldn't do that.

He lay back down in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling.

It was a twisted, invasive idea, and that was why he liked it so much. If only he could remember how to do it, and if he concentrated hard.

The Master felt memories of Gallifrey come flooding back to him. Learning about entering the minds of others had come later in his education, as it was a tool that was strictly prohibited except in extreme circumstances. To break that rule had severe consequences.

But since when did he care about breaking the rules? The Time Lords were dead, and the only other one left was currently in the form of a weak old man, with no power to reprimand him at all.

The Master grinned, and closed his eyes, though not to sleep, to concentrate on the distant mind of Martha Jones.

-

_She was standing on an open, windswept plain, barren, dry and empty. The ground was grey and cracked beneath her, and above her was an ominous, swirling black cloud. _

_She turned around, and felt her blood run cold as she saw a figure walking towards her. Even though the figure was at a distance, she couldn't mistake that arrogant stride, that proud, haughty posture. It was him. _

"_Well well well," he said as he walked closer to her and stopped. "Martha Jones." Martha didn't quite know what to say to this, so remained silent. He regarded her with cold, calculating eyes, a small sparkle of taunting just visible in the corner. _

_Martha shivered under his gaze. She didn't like him looking at her at all; it was as though he was staring right through her, past her clothes, past her skin, into her soul. It felt like he was probing her, and she didn't like it. It made her feel dirty, unclean. _

_He released his cold gaze and looked around him. _

"_You're feeling lonely, Martha Jones," he said slowly._

_Martha couldn't speak. She tried to stop the look of fear crossing her face, but by the smirk that passed over the Master's face, she knew that she had failed. _

_He was getting to her. _

"_Lonely," he repeated, stepping closer. "Bitter, angry, cold." _

_They were almost nose to nose before he stopped, turned slightly, and began pacing around her like a predator teasing its prey. _

_Martha stood quite still, like a frightened rabbit, utterly terrified. _

"_You can't hide from me forever," he said, only just managing to keep a delighted smirk off his face as he realised how scared she was. "I'm going to find you. I'm going to find you soon. Very soon. I'm not finished with you. I'll be seeing you, Martha Jones. Sooner than you think." _

_There was a massive gust of wind, and the ash grey dust whipped up around him in a huge grey swirl of dust and sand, knocking Martha off her feet. But where was the ground? She was falling, falling like a stone. And there was the ground coming towards her, so cold and such a steely grey. Any moment she would hit it and-_

Martha Jones sat up, breathing heavily, forehead wet with perspiration.

It took a few moments to realise that she had just been having a dream.

Only a dream.

Her heart rate slowed as she breathed deeply and tried to calm herself.

But it had been a strange dream, no normal nightmare was that vivid, that detailed, and she could remember everything about it.

She slapped herself to wake up. It was _just a dream_. Nothing more, nothing less. It would be in her best interests to forget about it and continue with her duties.

Now where was she?

She looked about herself, and remembered at once.

It was dark; she was in a rowing boat crossing the English channel, manned by two Frenchmen.

Of course Martha barely knew the difference between different nationalities any more. She had been wearing the Tardis key for so long, it not only kept her hidden, but since it was a piece of the Tardis, it also translated any language in her head so naturally it was as if everyone in the world spoke the same tongue.

"Miss Jones," one of the Frenchmen said. "We're here."

Martha's heart started beating faster again. They were there. On the shores of Britain. She had waited so long to get back there, and she knew so well what getting back meant: it was nearly time.

She saw a light on the shore ahead, and heard the crunch of the boat against the sand.

She thanked the Frenchmen, before clambering out of the boat, the feel of the cold salt water against her ankles waking her enough to run across the wet sand towards the person who was holding the lantern.

She slowed to a stop as she got closer and looked at the face of her aide. He was tall, taller than her at least, his face was young and unshaven, and he had a look of weariness about him. But he had such gentle, kind eyes, and Martha trusted him at once.

"What's your name then?" She asked.

"Tom Milligan," the young man replied. "No need to ask who you are: the famous Martha Jones. How long since you were last in Britain?"

"Three hundred and sixty five days," Martha replied. She had thought about it often enough, but actually hearing the words coming from her own mouth was quite different. "It's been a long year."

-

Martha looked in surprise at Tom's battered pick up truck.

"How come you can drive?" She asked. "Don't you get stopped?"

"Medical staff," he replied. "Used to be a paediatric spec in the old days. But that gives me a licence to travel so I can help out at the labour camps."

Martha smiled.

"Great," she said, half to herself. "I'm travelling with a doctor."

She climbed into the passenger seat next to Tom.

"Story goes," he said. "That you're the only person on Earth who can kill him. That you and you alone can kill the Master stone dead."

Martha was surprised at his words. She remembered her dream with a shudder, remembered how terrified she had been in the presence of the Master, and that was only a dream. She would have to see him face to face at some point. Kill the Master? She wouldn't have the courage to do that in a million years. But she could hardly tell Tom that; he, like everyone else on the planet, clung to every scrap of hope that came their way. She couldn't tell him the truth. But she couldn't lie either.

"Let's just drive," she said.

And the pick up truck spluttered into life and drove away from the coast towards London.

----

Sorry if the large section of quotes from the episode annoyed some of you, I just think that interaction between Martha and Tom is important in this fic.

Speaking of interaction, what did you all think of the interaction between Martha and the Master?

Reviews greatly appreciated, whatever your opinions are!


	4. Facing the storm

Sorry it's taken so long for me to update!! This chapter is extra long to compensate.

x

----

Martha and Tom ducked into the low ceilinged, dark workroom, full of various broken, useless pieces of electrical equipment. A middle aged woman was leaning over a small, rather battered looking television, hitting it in agitation.

"Professor Docherty?" Tom asked.

"Busy!" Came the flustered reply.

The pair approached.

"They sent word ahead, I'm Tom Milligan," Tom said. "This is Martha Jones."

"She can be the Queen of Sheba for all I care, I'm still busy," Professor Docherty replied.

Martha was a little taken aback. She had been to so many places over the past year, and everywhere she had been met with the greatest respect, delight and admiration. However here was this woman in a little workshop in England who thought that a broken television was more worth her time?

Martha was surprised to find that she did not mind the slightly frosty reception at all. But still, the obsessive tweaking of that ridiculous television was infuriating.

"Televisions don't work any more," Martha commented.

"Oh God I miss countdown," Professor Docherty said. "Never been the same since Dez took over. Both Dez's. What's a plural for Dez, Dezi? Dezee?" Martha and Tom exchanged worried glances. Professor Docherty sighed and continued. "But we've told there's going to be a transmission," she paused to bash the television. "From the man himself. There!"

Martha and Tom gathered around the television, and there, on the small, black and white, fuzzy screen, was the Master.

Martha felt her heart beat quicken. It was him. There, on that screen, the man who she _felt _as though she had met last night.

She frowned.

It was a dream. Nothing but a dream. She shook herself and concentrated on the screen.

"My people," the Master was saying. "Salutations. On this, the eve of war…" he paused, and grinned at the camera. "Lovely woman. But I know there's all sorts of whispers down there. Stories of a child walking the Earth, giving you hope…" The Master walked across the room to where the Doctor was sitting, old and frail. He couldn't help but feel a smug sense of victory whenever he look at his nemesis in this form. He turned towards the camera and continued. "But I ask you," he said. "How much hope has this man got? Say hello, Gandalf," he chuckled inwardly at his own joke. "Except, he's not that old. He's an alien, with a much greater lifespan than _you _stunted little apes. What if it showed?" He drew out his laser screwdriver and spoke to the Doctor. "What if I suspend your capacity to regenerate? All nine hundred years of your life." The Doctor looked at him blankly, but the Master continued. "Doctor, what if we could see them?" He set the screwdriver on the setting he had been waiting so long to use, pointed it at the Doctor, and tried not to smile as he screamed. "Older, and older… and older…" the Doctor writhed in agony as his body mutated in the space of seconds, and the Master was loving it. "Down you go, Doctor. Down… down… down his years…"

Martha was petrified, she hated it, hated what this man, this _alien _was doing, hated how light heartedly he seemed to be taking it, but she couldn't stop watching him, watching the way his face contorted with a sick form of pleasure as he at last lowered his laser screwdriver and there was silence.

"Doctor?" The Master said to the empty pile of clothes on the floor.

Such a long silence it was, too, and perhaps only Martha noticed the flicker of fear cross the Master's face as he bent over the pile of previously occupied clothes. Perhaps she only noticed that hesitation, that slight concern in his posture that reminded Martha of a schoolboy who had gone to far in his taunting games and killed that cat he had been chasing, or that small animal he had been teasing. But the look was soon gone as the pile of clothes moved and a small, shrivelled creature appeared. Martha did not need telling to know that it was the Doctor.

The Master drew himself up slowly, and moved towards the camera, looking right at it, right at _her. _

"Received and understood, Miss Jones."

And then he was gone.

-

Tom knocked on the door of number eight furtively, announced himself in a whisper to whoever was on the other side, and he and Martha slipped into the crowded house, and Martha beheld a sight that was not unusual to her. She had seen many such things during her travels. Poor people crammed like stock into these small houses, without food or water, but always wanting to hear about the Doctor. Always.

"Did you bring food?" A woman asked Tom.

"Couldn't get any," Tom replied. "And I'm starving."

"All we've got is water."

"It's cheaper than building barracks," Tom told Martha. "Pack them in, one hundred in each house, ferry them off to the ship yards every morning."

"Are you Martha Jones?" A blonde haired youth asked. Martha turned.

"Yeah that's me," she said.

"Can you do it? Can you kill 'im?" the young man asked. "They said you can kill the Master. Can you? Tell us you can do it, please. Tell us you can do it."

"Who is the Master?" Another woman asked from nearby. Soon the room was buzzing with questions.

"Come on, just leave her alone, she's exhausted," Tom told them.

"No, it's all right," Martha replied. "They want me to talk, then I will."

-

There was a knock at the door.

The Master groaned in annoyance from where he had previously been asleep in his bed, and buried his head in his pillow. He never liked to be woken at unnatural times.

"What time do you call this?!" He cried to the visitor.

"Just tell them to go away," Lucy sighed from beside him, and pulled the cover over her head.

"I'm sorry, Sir," came a flustered voice from behind the door, that the Master at once recognised as belonging to one of the messenger boys. "I really am. Terribly sorry, but I've got some important news."

"Can't it wait?" Snapped the Master.

"It's about Martha Jones." The messenger boy stammered.

The Master's eyes shot open, and he sat sharply up in bed.

"Come in."

-

"I travelled across the world," Martha was saying to her audience of eager people. "From the ruins of New York to the fusion mills of China right across the radiation pits of Europe. And everywhere I went I saw people just like you living as slaves. But if Martha Jones became a legend well that's wrong, because my name isn't important. There's someone else. The man who sent me out there, the man who told me to walk the earth. His name is the Doctor," Martha felt her heart flutter against her chest as she said his name. She couldn't help but smile as she reminded herself that she would be seeing him again soon. So soon. It took her a few moments to realise that she still had a captivated audience, and so continued. "He has saved your lives so many times and you never even knew he was there. He never stops, he never stays, he never asks to be thanked. But I've seen him. I know him. I love him," Martha paused. She had thought it so many times, she had known it for so long, but rarely was it said. And when it was said, it was like magic, as though she was releasing a wonderful secret. She smiled. "And I know what he can do-"

At that moment, the door opened.

"It's him! It's him! Oh my God it's him!" The woman who had opened the door for them rushed into the house.

"What do you mean?" Tom asked.

"It's the Master, he's here!" She said.

There was the sound of movement as people stood up and began talking worriedly to each other.

"But he never comes to Earth," the blonde haired youth said. "He never walks upon the ground!"

"Hide her!" the woman ordered, pointing at Martha.

Martha barely had time to think before coats were piled on top of her, and she leant back against the stairway, heart hammering like the wings of some crazed bird upon her chest.

"He walks among us," the young man said. "Our lord and master."

"Martha!" The Master called from outside, flanked by well built, well armed henchmen. "Martha Jo-ones… I can see you!"

Martha didn't know what to do, didn't know what to think. Never in all her life had she been so terrified. She had met witches, Daleks, monsters, aliens, she had done so many things, she had been so brave, but there was something about this man that scared her so much she could hardly breathe. Something about him that made her want to run away, far away, fast.

But she couldn't run. All she could do was stay there, and listen to him calling to her in that ridiculous way, almost as though he was laughing at her.

"Out you come, little girl," he continued. "Come and meet your Master."

The Master looked around the deserted street. Nothing. He wasn't surprised, he hadn't expected her to come out without a fight.

If a fight was what she wanted, a fight was what she would get.

"Anybody? Nobody? No? Nothing?" He changed tact immediately. "Positions," he commanded.

Martha heard the machine guns being cocked simultaneously, she could see Tom pointing his small pistol out of the letterbox. None of them would stand a chance.

"I'll give the order," Martha heard him say. "Unless you surrender. Just ask yourself, _what would the Doctor do?_"

Martha hated the way he talked to her, referred to her, as though she was a little girl. Just a child. No match for him.

Well she wasn't. She was just a tool, to do as the Doctor said. She was no match for him, and if he decided he wanted her dead, then dead she would be.

It was then that Martha realised that he was absolutely right. She was a little girl, she was a child. Not because she was young, younger than him at least, not because she was naive and _human_, but because she was lying there shivering under a pile of coats, with one hundred people around her, all waiting for her to help them, all depending on her, all believing in her.

And maybe that was all she needed.

Hurriedly, Martha drew the Tardis key out of her pocket and slipped it around her neck.

Out of sight of the people, she made her way to the door, placed a hand on Tom's, opened the door of number eight and stepped out and away.

And there he was.

And there she was.

She gave him a blank, steely look, before approaching slowly.

He smiled, and clapped his hands.

"Oh, yes!" He cried. "Oh, very well done, good girl! He trained you well.

The Master regarded her for a moment. Even in the dream, he hadn't remembered her being so beautiful, for a human, at least. But he knew that beautiful women were the last people to underestimate. So he reached into his pocket for his laser screwdriver.

"Bag," he said. "Give me the bag.

Martha felt her breath catch in her throat, and began to shiver in the cold. She began to walk towards him.

"No, stay there," he said, stopping her. "Just throw it."

Martha grudgingly removed the rucksack from her shoulders and tossed it towards him submissively.

The Master raised his laser screwdriver, pointed it at the plain, black rucksack, and set it alight.

"And now, good companion, your work is done," the Master said, turning the laser screwdriver to her.

Martha closed her eyes and turned her head away, waiting for the blow.

But it never came.

There was a crash behind her, and Tom dashed out of the doorway of number eight, pistol pointing straight at the Master, yelling.

As if he ever had a chance. In one easy movement, the Master had turned the laser screwdriver on Tom, and killed him.

He collapsed onto the floor of the dirty streets.

And all he got was a smirk and a small laugh from his murderer.

Martha stared at Tom's motionless body, and felt a small lump form in her throat. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't. She couldn't. She had liked Tom so very much for the short time that she had known him, she had more than liked him. And she had, perhaps foolishly, let herself believe that he may have more than liked her as well.

And just like that, he was gone.

And there was this man, standing in front of her, the man she thought she hated more than everything, the man who had enslaved her family and friends, killed Tom, done all of this to the human race, and she felt absolutely nothing towards him. Nothing. Not even hatred. She was numb, and she didn't know why.

The Master looked at her, hardly believing his own weakness. Part of him was screaming: _Kill her! Kill her now! _But the other part resisted, the other part didn't want to. And he would never admit it, but that scared him. Why couldn't he kill her? Why couldn't he?

Something had to be done quickly. He couldn't appear weak in front of his men. He thought fast.

"But you," he said to her. "When you die, the Doctor should be witness, hmm?" She did nothing but stare at him blankly, he couldn't stand it. He broke the gaze. "Almost dawn, Martha," he said. "And planet Earth marches to war."

----

And that should be the end of the episode dialogue for a while now. I'm sure it was getting a little tedious, but I promise that it's over for the moment.

Please review, constructive criticism always welcome!

x


	5. Afraid of the storm

I'm back! Sorry for the long wait!

--

Pain shot through Martha's shoulder as she was pushed unmercifully through the door and collided with the harsh, metal wall. She spun around as the door slammed with a loud, resounding crash. The keys turned in the lock on the other side and her captors walked off, their footsteps clearly audible on the metal floors.

It was all metal, everything. The walls, the floors, the doors, all of this sky haunting hell of a place was made of cold, straight, undented metal, and she hated it.

Martha sank to the floor of her small cell, empty apart from a flickering halogen light on the ceiling, and herself. There wasn't even a bed to give some sort of small, familiar comfort. The door was large, and it was in the top half of this that the only window was set. And as small, as solid and as edged as it was, it made Martha feel not quite so enclosed.

Martha leaned against the corner and closed her eyes. The Master had specially designed the cells to be as uncomfortable as was possible, they were made to be small and cold and _metal_. There were flickering lights in each one of the identical cells, even though Martha may not have known it. They were put there simply to distress the captives even further. This prison in the depths of the 

Master's air fortress was designed in great detail to make the prisoners inside it go mad.

She mustn't let it get to her. Martha tried to comfort herself; it was only a couple of weeks before the countdown. Only a couple of weeks before this was all over, before the Master would be gone. Only fourteen days until she could see her family, Jack, and the Doctor again.

Martha smiled. The Doctor was here. He was somewhere in this place, and it was that, more than anything, which comforted her most of all. Where she was now was closer to the Doctor than she had been in the past year. It was almost over; all she had to do was to wait for two weeks.

Just wait.

The halogen light continued to flicker. Martha could sense the change in light even with her eyes closed. She opened them and pulled up her sleeve to look at her watch. That was something at least. She knew how easy it would be to lose track of time in this place without one. It was nearly midnight.

-

"Harry darling, come to bed."

Lucy patted the sheets next to her and smiled over at husband, who was staring out of the window.



There was a long silence. He didn't reply. Lucy didn't quite know what to do. There was something about her husband that frightened her, he was dangerous, she knew that already. But he had always talked about _their _future, _their _universe. Of course she knew that what he was doing was wrong, but she tried her hardest to push that thought into the back of her mind. She loved him. And they say that love is blind. Lucy had never understood that saying. Love wasn't blind, it just refused to see.

"Harry?"

The Master felt a slight wave of irritation at hearing her call him that. Why did she do it? It was fine when he was pretending to be Harold Saxon, he expected her to call him that then. It was all part of the game. But why now? Why now when everyone knew very well that he wasn't who he had claimed to be? When there was nothing to hide. _'Harry'_, it was such a simple name. Two syllables, not particularly interesting, quite dull in fact, and so human. Everything that he was not. He had just about endured being called Harry for the months he had been living as one of them, and now the only thing that tied him, however briefly, to human kind was the one thing she insisted on calling him.

"You've had a long day, darling. You need some sleep."

He spun around sharply to face her.

"Since when was it up to you whether I need sleep or not?"



She cringed slightly, she hated it when he snapped at her. Yet again, something else that she ignored about him. He had a temper; there was no doubt about that. He could turn so quickly, and she rarely knew what triggered them. But yet again, she tried to ignore it as much as possible. Yet again her love for him was refusing to see what it loved.

He sighed and walked over to the bed.

"I'm sorry," he said, climbing in beside her and kissing her. "Maybe you're right. It's the stress, probably, it's the stress."

Lucy smiled and rubbed his shoulders.

"You need a holiday. We both do. When this is over we'll find a nice planet somewhere… how about that one you were telling me about, with the mountains, and the two moons…"

She continued talking, but the Master wasn't listening. His mind was somewhere else. Even after Lucy had stopped talking and fallen asleep, he stayed awake, unmoving, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He couldn't sleep, he didn't much anyway, but now he simply couldn't. To his surprise, his mind was not filled with constant, continuous drumming, which was often the cause for his sleeplessness. His thoughts were entirely occupied by Martha Jones.

She was here.



She was on board, right now she was on that very ship, in one of the cells far below where he was lying now.

Why was he thinking about her? He had thought that the reason he was so continuously obsessed with her before was that she was below, on the Earth, wandering wherever she wanted, a potential threat. He had told himself that once she was safely locked in the bowels of the Valiant there would be no need for her to take up so many of his thoughts.

And yet there she was, just like the drumming, there constantly, relentlessly.

She couldn't be doing it, could she? It wasn't something to do with one of the Doctor's madcap schemes?

The idea was quickly dismissed. Even with the Doctor's help, Martha was nowhere near strong enough to get inside his head. He was much more powerful than her.

He grinned at this thought, as if it brought him a small comfort, and closed his eyes.

Suddenly, an idea struck him, and they snapped open again.

Why not emphasise to Martha just how powerless against him she really was? He grinned. He felt like a spot of light mind invasion again.

-

_She spun around, heart beating fast. No, not again, it would be too much of a coincidence. She looked with wide, scared eyes at the same grey, cracked landscape, the same dark sky, and knew as soon as she felt that familiar rush of fear that she was having the same dream as last time. _

_She scanned the landscape, looking in every direction, searching for that figure that had… well, there was no other word for it; haunted her last time._

_But he wasn't there. Where was he? _

_Martha spun around, looking for any sign of him, any shape on the horizon, but there was nothing. Nothing except the cold grey sky. _

"_Martha Jones." _

_Martha jumped and spun around. _

_He was there. _

_Close to her, only a few feet away, a smirk plastered on his face and he was staring at her with those piercing eyes. _

"_A bit jumpy, are we?" He asked, taking a step towards her. She stepped back quickly, staring at him, eyes wide with fear. He laughed. _

"_How do you like the Valiant?" He asked her. _

_Martha did not reply. _

"_I designed it myself. Every detail. I trust your room is to your liking? I would have given you the guest suite, but… I didn't want to." He laughed again, coldly. _

_Martha had had time to regain her composure and was now staring at him resolutely, face betraying no emotion. _

"_You're still scared, Martha…" he said, taking another step towards her. This time she held her ground. "Still so scared…" _

_He took his eyes off hers and glanced down her, at her battered, weather worn clothing, before stepping closer again, until their bodies were almost touching. _

"_You're afraid of me," he said in a low voice. "You're absolutely…" he fixed his gaze to hers again, and very, very softly brushed his hand against her arm. "… terrified." _

_Martha was fighting every impulse in her body telling her to step away. He was touching her, his hand had touched her arm. The minute he had done it, it felt like he had given her an electric shock. Maybe he had, she didn't know. In that moment, she didn't know anything, all she knew was that he was right. She was terrified. Her heart was racing, she could feel her blood pumping through her body like an adrenalin rush. It had to be fear, what else could it be? _

_And, just as suddenly as he had touched her, he pulled his hand away and grinned at her. _

"_You think just because I captured you this game is over?" He smirked at her, trying to hide his frustration at her lack of response. "Oh no, believe me, Martha Jones, it's barely begun." _

-

Martha woke up with a start, sweat dampening her forehead. She took a few moments to register where she was, and then, quite ashamed of herself and not entirely knowing why, she started to cry. They were sobs of confusion, aching tiredness, and fear. How was he doing this? How was he invading her dreams? How _dare _he?

She sobbed in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees.

She had comforted herself with the knowledge that the Doctor was close to her, that he was somewhere on board. Now she knew that the Master was just as close to her, just as much on board as anyone else.

This thought did nothing to calm her down, and her sobs grew louder and more desperate, as she wondered why on earth her arm was tingling.

--

Next part coming up super soon!




	6. Fighting the storm

Sorry for the long wait again, now I'm off school until September, so I'm free to do as I please, without copious amounts of work hanging over me. So expect more frequent updates. :)

--

Martha sat in the corner of the cell, tears drying slowly on her cheeks, exhausted and ashamed of her hysterical sobbing. What had it achieved? Nothing. There were many times throughout the previous year when all she had wanted to do was to sit down in the nearest corner and cry her eyes out, because it all felt so hopeless. The sheer size of the task the Doctor had asked her to do, just how much everything relied on her, not just the fate of the earth, but the _universe_. The fact that she was _the _vital component in stopping this, in saving the world and whatever other worlds were out there, had often reduced her to moments where she had wanted to do exactly what she had done not an hour ago; burst into tears. And yet she hadn't. Martha Jones was not an entirely confident young woman. She might have seemed like it, waltzing into other times, planets and different dangers with the air of one who was walking into an interesting museum, but underneath, like many other women, she had this small, constant, raw sense of self doubt and lack of confidence. It was this that had really put her strengths to the test over the past year. And despite this feeling, she was a strong woman. Very strong. She had kept the doubting side of her very much at bay as much as she was able, but there were just times, either watching one of _his_ 

broadcasts to 'his people', or thinking about the Doctor, or just holding the key to the Tardis in her fingers for a few moments, feeling the metal, that foreign, alien metal, almost warm and pulsing as if it had a heartbeat, almost alive, that her strengths wavered, and she allowed herself, albeit briefly, to doubt whether she was capable of completing such a task.

Martha felt a slight surge of anger towards the Doctor pass through her body like a wave of heat. How could he ask her to do such a thing? How could he expect so much from her?

This feeling was quickly and firmly shaken away. What else could the Doctor do? He trusted her, wasn't that a good thing? Hadn't that been enough to keep her going? The fact that the Doctor was counting on her, that he needed her. The thought that at the end of it all, he wouldn't say 'Rose would have done it, she would have managed', instead he would be proud of her, Martha, and accept that that was who she was.

_But that's not what he wants, is it? He might like Martha Jones, he might accept who she is, but she's not what he wants at all. _

Martha stared at the opposite wall with unblinking eyes, too full of anger to be frightened. Why was she so angry? Never in the whole of the past year had she felt such anger for the man that she loved with all her heart. That she _thought _she loved. Surely, if she loved the Doctor she wouldn't be angry with him for 

putting his trust in her. Why now? At the end of her struggles, when her mission was near completion, was she somehow losing her strength and feeling doubt and fury?

There was only one answer she could think of. _Him. _

He must be doing this to her, somehow, making her feel angry towards the Doctor, because she could not believe that she would feel such things in any normal circumstances, and indeed, hadn't until just then.

Martha felt another surge of anger, but this time not towards the Doctor. Towards him. The Master, for getting inside her head and breaking her down, making her, however briefly, hate the Doctor. The beautiful, wonderful Doctor. How dare the Master make her hate him, how dare he corrupt her feelings of love with his hate. Her anger towards the Master became stronger, and stronger as these thoughts ran through her mind, these feelings ran through her body so that she could almost feel them. She felt her heart beat faster, her blood heat up, as she concentrated all of her thoughts, all of her energy into thinking those three little words.

_I HATE YOU! _

_I HATE YOU! _

Martha took a deep breath, before shouting as loud as she could:

"I HATE YOU!"



-

The Master woke with a start.

He had heard her.

Not with his ears, but with his thoughts. He was certain of it. He must have done. He never dreamt. Never in his life had he had any kind of dream, and yet somehow this human, this _child_ had reached him, had touched his mind with all the ferocity of a thousand sharp blades. With hatred.

_HOW? _

He sat up in bed, feverishly wiping his brow as he realised his forehead was damp with sweat. _How? How? How? How? How?_ He was frightened. _No he wasn't. _He was terrified. _No, couldn't be. _It was the Doctor, it must have been the Doctor. But at the same time, it can't have been. He was one hundred percent sure that whilst he was sleeping, Martha Jones had touched his subconscious with her own and hated him with such passion that he had woken from his sleep in a feverish, sweaty fear.

"_I HATE YOU!" _

His hearts were still beating faster than normal. It couldn't have been the Doctor. Every inch of those words that had hit him so hard screamed Martha Jones. He didn't know how, but they did. He knew it was her. He _knew _it. Who on earth did she think she was?



Then he realised. He had been invading her subconscious. Somehow, because of this, there was a thin wisp of a link between their minds, hair thin, quite possibly less. But that was the reason why he had heard her thoughts, her strongest thoughts. It was his doing.

This thought comforted him slightly, and he tried to steady his shaking hands and slow his breathing. It was only Martha Jones, a mere human who was at this moment locked in a cell far below him, alone and scared, entirely at his mercy. He wiped the last wave of sweat off his forehead and took a deep breath. He glanced to his left at his wife, still sleeping peacefully, and lay back down, resting his head on the pillow. It was solid and gave him a little more comfort. That was all, a simple mind link, barely a link at all, most likely quite easily fixed if care was taken, and completely all his doing. Perfectly easily explained.

The Master turned onto his side and closed his eyes again, the thought of Martha Jones in her 'dream' racing through his head. He could feel her fear, and now her hatred. _Martha Jones. _

He snapped his eyes open. It was in that moment, the moment he smiled in the darkness as he thought of her name, that the Master realised, to his horror, that she had invaded his thoughts a long time ago, long before her capture. All of those mornings he had asked religiously if there was any news of her, how she had reminded him of the drumming, there in his mind constantly, waiting, waiting, never leaving him alone. She may not have meant to, but it was only 

then that he realised she had been in his thoughts for a long time. He stared into the darkness, and for the first time, he felt afraid of her. Afraid of a human.

And for that, he assured himself furiously, Martha Jones would pay.

--

No, I don't know why the squares are there either. :(


	7. A rumble of thunder

So, off I went on holiday, tagging a notebook along behind me, and little did I know that I would write during my two weeks away from home, not one, but two new chapters of Sweet Charade. Enjoy!

--

Martha opened her eyes. She took a moment to remember where she was before sitting up, shoulder numb from leaning against the cold, hard floor. She pulled back her sleeve to look at her watch, and had to look at it a couple of times before her bleary eyes registered the time. 10 am. She had slept for longer than she had thought she would. She certainly wasn't complaining. More sleep meant more energy to keep going. Only a couple of weeks.. That was all she would have to wait. She could manage that easily, she knew she could.

Suddenly, there were footsteps outside the door and a clanking of keys, and Martha jumped to her feet, heart rate increasing rapidly, hastily throwing up mental barriers to defend herself against the man on the other side of the door.

The door swung open, and Martha felt an odd sensation; relief mixed with a strange, unexplainable disappointment as she realised that the man standing in the doorway was not the Master.

She knew at once, however that he had come straight from the man himself. He was dressed in black, was thickset and carrying a gun. Martha had seen too 

many of the Master's thugs during her travels not to recognise one when she saw one.

"What do you want?" Martha wasn't in the mood for any beating around the bush, no matter how under orders the man may be.

"The Boss sent me to ask you some questions."

"Yeah? Well why doesn't he come and ask them himself?" She looked up at the camera in the top corner of the cell, directly into the black lens, the little red light on the edge telling her that she was being watched.

On the other end of the camera, ready to watch her interrogation from the comfort of his own desk, was the Master.

He smirked at the laptop screen as she looked up at the camera, eyes as cold as stone. Clever girl. She knew he was watching her. He felt a pang of jealousy towards the henchman who was in there with her. It wasn't like him to have someone else do his dirty work. Especially when it came to a foe as high on his wanted list as Miss Jones. He liked to be in there, tormenting them, taunting them, torturing them. Letting them know that he had won, that he had got them. But if there was one thing he knew about Martha Jones, if there was only one fact that he had discovered, it was that they were the same. They both loved to face their enemy. To look them in the eye. Neither of them were cowards, and 

to deny her the satisfaction of facing him, he knew, was a perfect form of torture.

Martha looked back at the henchman as he answered her question.

"That isn't any of your business." He slammed the door shut behind him. Martha didn't flinch, face set in that cold, blank expression that the Master recognised so well. "You were travelling all over the world. How did you manage to avoid capture?"

Martha hesitated. Lying wasn't going to get her anywhere. It would probably make the situation worse for herself. It wasn't even as if telling the truth would be of any undesirable consequence. She no longer needed the Tardis key, and the Master wouldn't have any particular use for it. Still, the truth, she knew in his eyes, would be a sign of weakness, and she wasn't about to show him any of that. Plus, lying would wind him up. She had to show him that she was fighting back. Two could play at this game.

"I'm good at hiding."

The Master raised an eyebrow as her reply came over the video link. She was fighting back, was she? Well, he certainly wasn't about to complain about a bit of spirited resistance. She would give in sooner or later.

The henchman was less amused.

"Tell the truth."



"I am." Martha smirked at him, her face intentionally telling otherwise.

"I'd think very carefully before lying to me," he fingered his gun warningly. The Master laughed. Death threats were such good ways of frightening humans, whether genuine or not. That was where he had been very clear in his instructions. Oh, his henchmen would ask her every question he told them to ask, they could threaten her as much as they wanted, but not a bullet, not a finger was to be lain on Martha Jones. She was not to be touched, she was not to be harmed. He had pressed that point to the extent that, had he not justified his orders with his desire to only hurt her in front of the Doctor, questions would have been asked. And he did not want people to realise what he had only just found out himself. So his secret remained safe, and they accepted his orders. Martha Jones was to be left untouched, intact, completely clean, until he decided the time was right.

The Master raised his eyebrows in slight surprise as she appeared to see through the insincerity of the threat as well.

"You wouldn't shoot me."

"Wouldn't I?" the henchman cocked the gun savagely. Martha didn't blink. The Master smirked. He hadn't enjoyed watching an enemy so much in a long time.

"I'm sure," Martha continued, voice confident and deliberately clear, making sure that the Master could hear every word. "Because your 'Boss' wants to keep 

me alive until the countdown, to kill me in front of the Doctor," she smirked. "You haven't been ordered to shoot me, and if you went against orders, worse would happen to you."

The Master grinned as his henchman faltered. This girl, this young woman, weaponless, defenceless and weak, had managed to scare a grown man carrying a rifle. He leant back in his chair, quite ready to watch Martha Jones get taunted for another hour or so at least, when there was a slightly timid knock on the door, and his wife came in. He hastily lifted one leg over his knee to hide the hardness in his lap, and switched off the audio link, before reluctantly turning away from the screen and facing his wife.

"Yes?"

Lucy tried not to wince at his sharpness.

"I just wanted to see if you were all right," she crossed the room towards him and leant against the table with a smile. "You must be lonely in here on your own."

"No, I'm working," he almost didn't bother to keep the irritation out of his voice.

"What're you doing?" she moved to stand next to him and looked at the laptop screen. "Martha Jones," she said with a small smile. "Out of the way at last."



The Master took the opportunity eagerly to look back at Martha. He watched as she seemed to resist yet more questions, wondering how although she had hardly had access to many creature comforts over the past years, she still managed to look so-

"Contained, at least," he said with a cough. "She's not answering my questions."

Lucy laughed.

"What questions do you need to ask? You've got her where you want her. She's contained, she's captured."

The Master didn't reply, and instead carried on watching Martha. Lucy glanced between her husband and the girl on his screen, before speaking carefully, looking at him.

"She's very pretty."

The Master looked at Martha for a few moments longer, before flicking his gaze away from the screen and back at his wife.

"I suppose she us," he flashed her a brief grin before turning his attention back to the laptop. "Now if you don't mind, I must get back to work."

She looked at him again. A long, searching look as if she was waiting for something else. But nothing came. Lucy frowned slightly.



"Fine." She turned and walked out of the room.

He didn't watch her go, probably didn't even notice her leaving. He switched the audio link back on the minute Lucy had left the room, just in time to see his henchman leaving the room.

He cursed under his breath and switched off the video link, before leaning back in his chair and looking out of the window at the blue, blue sky. She wasn't answering his questions.

That fact in itself wasn't the problem. He would be lying if he said that he was actually interested in getting answers out of her at all. What he was interested in was her. By sending a henchman down to ask her questions he was testing the water, seeing just how stubborn, just how strong she thought she was. By doing this, by testing her, he was judging how much effort it would take to break her down, to punish her for what she had done to him. He wasn't about to let some human get the better of him. Once he knew what it would take to break her, that was when he would step in.

Breaking Martha Jones: A pleasure he would certainly allow no one else to have.


	8. The Oncoming Storm

So, second chapter I wrote whilst away. This is the first chapter which deals heavily with a character other than Martha or the Master. I hope you like. :)

--

He opened his eyes and quietly regarded his surroundings. The room was blessedly empty for once. He supposed it must still be early, from the way the sun's light cast shadows across the floor. He never slept for long, Time Lords didn't need to, it was more of a human thing. He sighed, a long, slow, almost mournful sigh of deep, deep weariness. It wasn't only his dramatically and suddenly aged body which was causing such exhaustion, it was pure exhasperation, weariness of the mind. The constant fight, the inevitable loss. He found himself wondering briefly who would be the one he would lose this time. Martha? Jack? Oh the plan would work, he knew it would, he trusted Martha indefinitely, as she trusted him. He knew she hadn't failed. Even though she had been captured, even though the Master had made sure that he was the first person to find out about his victory in capturing Martha Jones, the Doctor knew that it was no victory at all. They had won already. But no longer did the Doctor relish any success. No longer did he feel the giddy sensation of joyous victory, although he had witnessed it in countless others. He had seen too many battles to find a thrill in winning them any more.

He sat up, leant back against the bars of his cage and managed a small smile as a little, quiet, almost forbidden thought gently slipped to the forefront of his 

mind. The people, the humans he loved might be in danger for the moment, but one was safe. Rose.

Rose Marion Tyler. He revelled in the rare, blissful calm that name gave him. For one moment that he regretted as soon as it had come, he wondered what Rose would have done in Martha's position. Would she have done it better? Worse? He chided himself for allowing himself to nearly compare the two of them. He had done it before, of course, many times. That was why he felt so guilty.

Although none of it was his fault, he couldn't help feeling a strong sense of responsibility for everything that had happened. The Master was a Time Lord, like him. He somehow felt responsible for his actions. He was worried about Martha, he didn't know what she might be going through, how she was being treated, anything other than she had been captured and was somewhere on board the Valiant, at the mercy of the Master.

At that moment, as if on cue, the doors opened and the Doctor looked up to see the Master striding in, alone, a smug look on his face.

"Morning," he crossed the room and sat in a nearby chair.

"What do you want?" the Doctor stood up slowly, regarding the Master with suspicion.



"Oh come, come," he gave the Doctor an overused, false, gloating smile. "Just come to have our little morning chat. I couldn't be accused of being a neglective host."

"Where's Martha? Have you hurt her?"

The Master's lips slid into a grin at her mention.

"Your little companion is being kept in the cells. Decided to give her special accommodation, due to her having earned such a high place on my wanted list," he smirked. "As for the other question, no one has touched her. I'm saving the torture specially for you."

The Doctor looked at the Master searchingly, slightly puzzled. Was that so? Nobody had touched her? The Master's words had sounded a little odd. He may have wanted to hurt her in front of the Doctor, but not to hurt her at all before hand, not even a bit? Something didn't quite fit. This wasn't usual Master behaviour.

The Master smirked a moment longer before speaking again.

"Not long to wait before the countdown," he paused. "How does it feel, Doctor, to watch the human race in more danger than it has ever been before, and not being able to do anything about it?"



The Doctor stayed silent. He wasn't about to humour the Master by answering his ridiculous questions. The Master smirked again, not expecting an answer, and leaned back in his chair, regarding his nemesis with cold eyes.

"How will it feel, do you think, watching the universe burn? Watching it burn, and knowing that it was the power of a Tim Lord which destroyed it?"

The Doctor stared back at him, oversized, doleful eyes filled with pity and sadness where there should have been anger.

"How will it feel, on the day of the countdown, when, at the dawn of a new age, you watch Martha Jones die?"

"You're obsessed."

The Master grinned. A reaction at last.

"I know. But sometimes obsession is a good thing, don't you think?"

"I meant obsessed with her. With Martha."

The Master's grin faltered. The Doctor continued, voice strained from the effort of speaking.

"You asked me about her every day whilst she was out there. No matter how the conversation began it always ended with her."

The Master's expression changed at once to one of hatred and he spat out the reply.



"My obsession lies only in my desire for universal domination. No human could compare to that. Certainly not one as troublesome as Miss Jones."

"Don't hurt her," the Doctor spoke gravely, quietly, a small edge of warning hidden behind the calm. "Don't touch her. Leave her alone."

The Master's chest rose and fell in short, angry breaths, concealing the fear beneath which had swept through his body like an unpleasant, cold sweat the second the Doctor had spoken of his suspicions. He rose and walked to the cage to look the Doctor in the eye. When he spoke it was through gritted teeth, and with forced calm.

"I assure you, Doctor, I feel nothing towards that girl other than loathing. She is a stone in my shoe which I intend to get rid of at the countdown, in front of your very eyes," he laughed. The sound could have been genuine but his face was strained, unnatural. "And I'm going to like it."

With that, he turned and left the room, without even so much as a glance behind him.

--

So, next chapter coming up soon I should think, please tell me what you think. Reviews are love.


	9. Lightning bolts

Hello all, let me just clarify if anyone else starts to wonder this: There will be NO rape in this chapter or in any of the chapters to come. Thank you. :)

----

"Tell the truth!" There was a flick of a switch, another flash of blinding pain, and Martha fell to her knees, clutching her left arm and biting her lip to stop herself from crying out. She tensed in the heavy, wired jacket that had been forced onto her. _Let them_, she had thought. There would have been no point in struggling. She turned her expression into one of contempt and turned to her addressor.

"I am."

There came an audible crackle of static over the handheld at the guard's belt, and the sound of laughter, scratched by the reception. She glanced up at the camera, at the little red light, as she heard the Master speak.

"Ask her again, Ryan."

The guard turned the jacket controls in his hand, face expressionless, and spoke.

"Try again, and tell the truth. Is the Doctor planning something?"

"No!"

The guard pressed the button scarcely after the word had escaped her lips, and she clutched her abdomen in pain, only just stopping herself from crying out as a nasty thud of electricity throbbed through her body at the touch of the button.

The Master grinned and leant back in his chair, eyes fixed on the laptop and the scene upon it. How deliciously stubborn she was being. Such life, such spirit… he allowed his tongue to trail along his top lip briefly, and watched as Martha gave the same answer again and again and again, watching her double up repeatedly as each reply resulted in the same punishment. He smirked. The jacket had been his idea. Of course it had. His eyes lingered hungrily on it, or rather, on her, on how well it fit her. On the way it clamped so closely around her body like a constricting metal vice. All the better for making the pain spread of course, but still, he wasn't about to deny its other benefits…

He snapped out of his reverie as her control broke and she released her first cry of pain. The sound was contained and slightly tinny over the audio link from the laptop, but it still caused a sickening grin to spread over the Master's face, and a long, slow shiver to crawl up his spine. He turned in his seat to smirk at the one other spectator in the room.

"Can you see all right from there? Is it loud enough?"

There was no reply. Of course, he hadn't expected one. He grinned, glanced back towards the screen briefly, and then behind him again as she gave another cry.

"I told you I'd save the torture especially for you. I'm a man of my word, Doctor. You know that." He grinned and turned back to the screen.

The Doctor didn't reply. Standing in his cage which had been set in prime viewing of the laptop, he gripped the bars tightly in his tiny fingers, his large, usually docile, sad eyes filled with burning rage. He gritted his teeth as Martha fell to the floor again. He could see the tears in her eyes, he could feel her despair and agony, and it was all his fault.

"STOP IT!"

The Master turned casually.

"Sorry, Gollum, did you say something?"

"Leave her alone!"

The Master grinned with delight at the reaction.

"Oh, you want to talk to Miss Jones? She can't come to the line at the moment, I'm afraid, but if you leave a message, I'm sure she'll get back to you."

"Stop it!" the Doctor spat, disgusted at his games.

The Master laughed and picked up the handheld from the table, spun his chair around, putting both the screen and the Doctor in view, and raised it to his ear, smirking at his nemesis as he flicked it on and spoke.

"Ryan, we have a doctor on the line, wants to speak to Miss Jones."

Martha looked up at the guard, at the handheld at his side, and then at the camera, vision blurred with tears. She heard the Master's voice, and then heard another.

"Leave her alone!"

She laughed. A rare sound, a quiet sound, and an unexpected sound, but a laugh it was. A laugh of sudden, happy disbelief, which threw everyone into slightly surprised silence, until she uttered the next, quiet, happy word.

"D-Doctor?"

The Master pouted at the Doctor and gestured to the handheld.

"Aww… isn't that sweet? Don't you have something to say to your _faithful_ companion?"

"The Doctor glanced between the screen and the man sitting beside it, who looked for all the world as if he were having the time of his life, was about to speak, before the Master flicked the handheld on again and spoke.

"And I'm afraid that's all we've got time for. Thank you very much for joining us, Miss Jones, Doctor. Ryan, that'll be all."

He switched off the handheld. His plan was still intact. She hadn't been touched. He smirked at his own genius and turned off the video link on the screen with one smooth movement.

Martha watched the little red light on the camera go off as soon as the Master had spoken over the handheld. The guard bent down and pulled the jacket off her. She tried to stand, but her body was aching. She collapsed into the corner as the guard opened the cell door. He turned back before he left and snorted.

"Perhaps you'll be more cooperative next time."

Martha didn't hear him speak. She didn't hear him leave the room and lock the door behind him and walk back up the corridor. Her thoughts were mixed. She felt sick from pain and exhaustion. As soon as he had arrived, he had gone, with a simple flick of a switch. She wasn't even sure who she was thinking of, the Doctor or the Master. The past hour had left her drained. When was he going to stop treating her like this? She tried to compose her thoughts. The countdown couldn't be far away now, and then it would all be over. He would be gone, and this would all be finished. All of it.

Martha curled up the corner and closed her eyes, one final thought slipping into her mind before she slept.

_Just be patient. _

-


	10. Drops of rain

There was a tentative knock on the door of his study. He made a small grunt of acknowledgement to whoever was behind it, but kept his eyes focused on the screen in front of him. She hadn't moved for the past half hour. He wondered if she was asleep. Or had fainted. It occurred to him that she probably hadn't eaten in a while. He should probably feed her something. The last thing he needed was a dead Martha Jones. She was far too useful, not to mention so much fun…

"Harry?"

The voice made him aware of his wife behind him. She sounded nervous as usual. It irritated him. Why did she always have to sound so nervous? He made another short noise, but did not turn his head, his gaze, from the screen.

"I… I haven't seen you for a while. You've been spending a lot of time working. I was wondering if… if maybe you'd like to take the afternoon off? We could spend some time together."

The proposition didn't even need consideration.

"I'm busy. I have work to do. Perhaps another day."

Lucy took a quiet breath, stung by the immediacy of his answer.

"Watching Martha Jones?"

He raised an eyebrow and spun in his chair to face her.

"Yes, watching Miss Jones. She's public enemy number two, and as such requires careful and continuous monitoring."

"But she's captured! She's asleep! You're spending more time in here with her than you are with me!" Lucy gestured to the screen, eyes wide with something akin to frustration. It was this small spark of spirit, more than anything, which made the Master smile.

"Come come, Lucy," he patted his lap gently. "Not jealous of Miss Jones, are you?"

Lucy regarded him for a moment, eyes still wide, but any show of affection from him could never keep her angry for long. They were precious, rare moments, and she could never be sure when they would come again. So she relented, and walked over to sit on his lap. The Master smiled, and spoke as if to a sulking child.

"Now you know I'm busy at the moment, and Miss Jones really is a priority in terms of work."

"But can't you get someone else to watch her?" Lucy ventured timidly. "One of the guards, or-"

"Shh…" he pressed a finger to her lips softly, and spoke in a low voice. "Now, Miss Jones hasn't eaten since her capture, so I'm going to have a little chat with her this evening over dinner."

Lucy started and pulled back slightly.

"You're having dinner with her?"

He chuckled softly.

"Nothing to worry about. Simply a way of getting answers from her."

Lucy nodded slowly, unconvinced. The Master smiled and lifted a hand to stroke her hair.

"Not long before the countdown. Then she'll be gone. They all will. It'll just be you and me and the whole universe. Do you know where I'll take you first?"

Lucy relaxed slightly.

"To the Scintillaré galaxy?"

"That's right…" the Master spoke softly, stroking her hair soothingly. "Where there are black sapphires instead of stars, so thick everywhere that you can look up at any time, and the whole sky resembles a vast, black, glittering sea."

She dropped her head back against his shoulder, smiling softly.

"And where will you take me second?"

"Oh, well second I'll take you somewhere very special…"

The Master talked on, almost reluctant to calm the spirit that he had seen leap so unexpectedly into his wife's eyes. But still, it was necessary. Too much spirit, or spirit for the wrong reasons at least, would do nobody any good at all. Besides, she did her job as she was: docile, passive, quiet and pretty. Although her days as a wrung in his ladder to power were over, it was of no disadvantage for her to draw little attention to herself. After all, any show of quarrel between them could lessen the fear surrounding him, especially since she was a woman. Besides, marital tiffs were disgustingly human, and he could hardly sink to partaking in one himself. No, she was much better off tamed as it were; sedated by pretty words and a soft voice. He had chosen his wife with intentional tact.

Others however, he mused, allowing his mind to wander again to less tame thoughts, were much better off keeping their fire. Humans were so entertaining, so diverse. He knew just which buttons to press to turn them at his will, as easily as turning a wheel. The fiery ones were always so much more fun to watch. Instead of bending and breaking, and crawling up to him as so many did, they fought and resisted and he always relished watching their ultimate (and inevitable) fall from pride. It may take more effort, but the end result was always worth it. It was just that some wheels required a little lubricating.

*

The door of the cell opened, and Martha gave a small, silent sigh. With a fair amount of effort, she opened her eyes and sat up to face her intruder. She had been for days without food in the wilderness before, of course, and so was well used to it, but there was something about this place that seemed to drain her dry. Perhaps it was because she was under constant surveillance. She could never properly relax knowing that _he _could be watching her somewhere on the ship. She snorted softly. Or perhaps it was because he seemed to have taken up her routine torture as a hobby.

She had been bracing herself for another round of whatever he had planned, and so was surprised to see that the guard, although armed, as they all were, was otherwise empty handed.

Before she had any more time to wonder about the reasons for the visit, the guard answered her question.

"Stand up, you're going to have dinner with the Master."

Martha felt sure that had her lids not been so heavy with exhaustion, her eyes would have popped out of her head. _'Dinner with the Master'?_ She felt a strange turning in her stomach as her mind processed the words, as well as a wave of slight giddiness, which she quickly blamed upon sitting up too fast. The proposition was ludicrous. Why did he want to have dinner with her? The obvious answer was information. He wanted to ask her questions. But what more could he ask her that he hadn't asked already? And to ask her over dinner? It must either be a trick, or some form of reverse psychology. She hadn't eaten for days. He knew she would be hungry, and weak. Perhaps a one to one over food would in his eyes be a golden opportunity to get the information that he wanted.

And yet as she stood up, there was still a small coil of thought in the back of her mind which told her that this dinner wasn't what he was making it out to be. As she walked out of the door, guard clasping her wrists behind her, her mind was straying towards thoughts that she had promised herself she wouldn't have: the consideration of even the possibility that the Master's interest in her may not be what it seemed.

She quickly pushed the thought from her mind, almost ashamed at allowing it in in the first place, and instead stumbled along corridors and passageways, narrow and metal, heavy eyes occasionally straying from the floor to the doors dotted along the walls, wondering in her disjointed thoughts if her family was behind any of them. She felt a strange kind of pleasure as anger flared inside her again at the thought of him daring to touch her family, and noted to herself to remember it, should she ever again feel herself thinking of him in any way other than disgust.

The ship was larger than she had initially expected. Perhaps she had a jaded view of time from spending so long in isolation, but the journey from her cell to the Master seemed to take a lifetime. The lower levels had taken long enough to pass through, and although she was sure that there was a lift that could have taken them there in under thirty seconds, she expected that he had specifically ordered for her to be made to walk the whole way. Whatever the reason, by the time they had reached their destination, Martha was quite ready to return to her cell and fall asleep again, rather than face what she expected would be a fairly gruelling dinner with the Master.

The guard kept hold of her wrists with one hand as he reached out the other to knock three times on the door.

"She's here, sir."

"Good," came the voice from within. "Send her in."

The guard obediently opened the door, pushed Martha inside, and closed it behind her, leaving her quite alone, and a little scared.

As soon as she had entered the room, the Master could sense her fear. It wasn't visible at all, it never was, but he could feel it. Their eyes met across the room, and he smiled.

"Good evening, Miss Jones."

She didn't reply. He hadn't expected her to. He let his gaze drag over her, and began to close the distance between them.

"There's no need to be frightened."

Martha raised an eyebrow.

"Who says I'm frightened?"

He regarded her for a moment, and chuckled. She felt a slow shiver creep up her spine at the sound. It was so low, there was something almost intimate about it that made her skin crawl and her stomach turn.

The Master stopped in front of her, and regarded her with a kind of scrutiny, as if sizing her up. She looked right back at him with a steady, expressionless gaze. She was so controlled. She could hide emotions so easily, push them back, lock them away, with admirable control, so that they never showed on her face. But he could feel them. He smirked. He could feel all of them, so strongly that they were almost deliciously physical. Still, curb those thoughts for now, he wouldn't be seen as a neglective host. He gave her a trademark smile.

"Either way, you must be incredibly hungry." He walked over to a small table, on which two places were set with food, and pulled out a chair for her. "Please take a seat."

Martha looked at the chair, then back at the man holding it, and, knowing little else what to do, walked slowly over to sit down. The Master smirked as she sat down; savouring the rare proximity he had to her. He lingered behind the chair a little longer than was perhaps necessary, and very softly brushed his arm against hers as he pulled back and walked to the other side of the table to sit down himself.

"So, Miss Jones, I hope you're enjoying your stay."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I've slept worse."

He laughed, resting his hands together on the table.

"So I've heard. So sorry to make the last year of hardship utterly fruitless for you." He chuckled again, but his eyes were on her, still and searching. She knew that he would be looking for the tiniest indication on her face that the Doctor was planning against him, and so she didn't let any show. Instead she looked back at him coldly, matching her tone with her stare.

"I didn't think Professor Doherty would betray me."

The Master laughed.

"Ah yes, Professor D. Her son made himself a nuisance a while ago. Needless to say he was dealt with fairly quickly. A simple affirmation of his welfare, and the woman does whatever we want." He laughed. Martha stared at him, not even trying to keep the disgust from her face. He raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"Martha Jones doesn't approve?"

"You're lying to her."

"Oh come come, I like to think of it more as sparing her feelings."

Martha didn't reply, but nor did she wipe the disgust from her face. The Master smirked, and gestured to her plate.

"Please, tuck in."

She glanced down at the plate of food, he sensed her hesitation, and chuckled.

"It's not poisoned."

In truth, Martha didn't believe for one moment that the food was poisoned. But the confusion that she had had on her journey up had not left her, and she was still trying to work out a sensible reason as to why he had invited her for dinner in the first place. The Master watched her, the same half smile stuck on his face in a way that made her feel quite uncomfortable. And those eyes… she picked up her cutlery, and raised her eyes briefly to meet his own. He didn't flinch. The steadiness of the gaze disarmed her, and she looked back down at once, chiding herself immediately for doing so, knowing that he would take it as a small victory. His smirk grew, and he kept his eyes on her for a little longer, before starting on his own food, and resuming the conversation between mouthfuls.

"I've been watching you, Miss Jones."

"I know you have."

"Good."

There was a pause again, the only sound coming from the scraping of cutlery against the plates. It was the first food she had eaten in days, and it was delicious.

"Although I don't know why."

"Don't you?"

She glanced at him. He smirked. She looked into his eyes. They were narrow, and brown, although darker than the Doctor's, and colder. Both of their eyes were incredibly telling, perhaps not always of immediate emotions, but of age, and of their story. She had always thought that the Doctor's eyes were desperately sad, as she supposed was expected from living such a long life so full of loss. They would have been a magnificent sight when he was younger, full of excitement and hope. There was no hope left in them now. The sorrow had drowned it out long ago, when he had learned time after time that loss was unavoidable and inevitable. But the Master's eyes… they were so different, somehow more difficult to read. There was no sorrow there, none at all. They were full of icy anger, revenge, and a frightening ruthlessness. _But why? _she wondered. What had caused him to be as he was? The Doctor had suggested that he had gone mad when he was a boy, the first time he had looked into the Time Vortex. But Martha wasn't convinced. There had to be some reason why he was filled with such anger…

"I'm beginning to think there's something on my face, Miss Jones," his voice brought her at once out of her reverie, and she looked away again. He smirked. "I don't blame you. You're not the first to be captivated by my devilish good looks."

Martha snorted.

"You're too confidant for your own good."

"Attractive isn't it?" He flashed her a grin.

Martha stared at him for a moment, taken by surprise, not so much at his flirting, but by her reaction. After a brief silence, she managed to muster a reply.

"No."

"_Oh, wonderful comeback."_ She mentally kicked herself for not thinking up a better response, and faster, as she saw the smirk spread over his face again. He lowered his voice slightly and spoke again.

"You mean to say you don't find me attractive? Not even handsome?"

She was much steadier this time, and looked back at him with the same, safe, expressionless gaze, praying that he couldn't hear her heart, that had decided to start thudding in her chest.

"I can't say that I do."

The Master laughed softly.

"No, I suppose you don't. I suppose the Doctor's face is more of a favourite to you, such stereotypical beauty." He snorted. "Humans have no sense of taste."

Martha raised her eyebrow upon hearing what sounded very much like jealousy in his tone. Somehow, it gave her strength.

"Does your wife know you talk to me like this?"

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Probably not. What she doesn't know won't hurt her." He smirked, his gaze moving over her again. Since he began the conversation, he had been watching the heat rise to her cheeks, could feel it radiating off her, and could almost hear her heart thudding against her ribcage. Of course, the poor girl couldn't help it. He was irresistible.

They lapsed into silence again, and resumed eating, more because Martha didn't trust herself to speak than anything else, and he enjoyed watching her. Her pulse was throbbing at such a degree that she doubted her ability to string together a coherent sentence, let alone a steady one. She didn't know what had come over her, and she hated herself for it. She didn't find him attractive. She didn't. Her stomach turned with every swallow of food, and she felt sick with fear, guilt and anger at herself and at him. He was a cruel, heartless monster who had imprisoned the people she loved and was plotting mass murder and universal destruction as calmly as if he was planning a shopping trip. She had to stay calm. She couldn't let him know that she was undergoing any sort of turmoil. Just be invisible. She had done that for so long, so well, that it was quite disarming sitting in front of somebody who quite clearly _wanted _to see her, indeed who rarely moved his eyes from her.

"I've been dreaming about you."

He raised both of his eyebrows this time. She rolled her eyes.

"You know exactly what I mean."

"Do I now?" He smirked.

"You do, and I want you to explain to me why and how."

"You shouldn't need me to explain how. You know just as well as I do." He smirked. "You hate me, Martha Jones, after all."

Martha's eyes widened as she remembered that exhausted evening when she had lost her temper. He acknowledged her revelation with a nod.

"I heard that."

"But how?"

"The mental link, or bond, if you will," he smirked at her. "Formed by me 'invading' your dreams. It went both ways. Of course, you were only strong enough to pass across your voice, not your image, and even then only when shouting it."

"And that's why you stopped," she smirked triumphantly. "You were scared that I was able to make you hear me."

He regarded her calmly.

"I wouldn't go so far as to say I was scared, Miss Jones, you merely caught me off guard. And I assure you, that's the last time you or anyone else does that. Besides, it's early days yet to be saying that I have stopped gracing your pitiful human excuse for a subconscious with my presence. I assure you, you won't find me so well mannered in your dreams as I am in life. My imagination tends to run away with me…" he trailed off, keeping his eyes on her. However she was feeling more confidant now, feeling the benefits of a plate of food, and so held the gaze as steadily as he did.

"Is that all you asked me up here for? To flirt with me, and tell me that you may or may not be interrupting my sleep patterns in the near future?"

The Master laughed, resisting the urge to tell her just how much he loved it when she fought back.

"It's only the gentlemanly thing to do for a man to let a lady know when he will be 'interrupting her sleep patterns'. As for the flirting," he smirked at her. "Consider that a bonus."

She rolled her eyes again, this time keeping her heartbeat steady. He flirted with everyone, even himself. It was hardly anything to shout about.

"Well, I hope you have enjoyed your meal."

She nodded. He looked at her expectantly.

"Not a 'thank you' for your host?"

Martha felt a flare of anger at the thought of thanking him. He, who had made her life a misery for the past year, who had imprisoned her family, not to mention the entire human race, and who had locked her up without food for days, now had the audacity to ask for thanks for a fairly small plate of food. Still, he would want her to argue, so she ground out a reply.

"Thank you."

"Good girl." He smiled at her, before pulling a handheld out of his pocket and pressing a button.

"Nicholas, be a gentleman and escort Miss Jones back to her room, would you?"

She rolled her eyes as he put the handheld away and stood up. She rose with him, mind already processing what that had passed between them with a strange and sudden streak of shame that she hadn't entirely hated the meal at all. The Master turned to her as they reached the door, and smiled, dropping his voice a fraction.

"Well, Miss Jones, it was a pleasure seeing you again. It has been a most… captivating evening."

She raised an eyebrow as the door opened to reveal the guard, and didn't reply.

"I'll see you at the countdown," he said, as the guard took hold of her wrists. "Just over a week to go." He laughed, and closed the door, turning back into the room. What a productive evening. He had given her something to think about, at least. He had sensed the way she had reacted to certain words spoken in a certain way, and congratulated himself on that particular stage of his plan going so wonderfully smoothly. He had known all it would take would be half an hour in his company and she would at once respond as any hot blooded female would, especially a hungry and exhausted one. But she was stronger than she looked, and aside of fighting against him, she seemed now to be finding a new source of strength by playing with him. He wouldn't deny that he would rather she had done the former. This would take more effort to control.

Of course he intended their paths to cross again before the countdown, more than once, if he could help it, and, he concluded, as he crossed the room to look out at the orange evening, they'd both just see who came out on top once his plan, his delicious revenge, had finally swung into full motion. There was a rumble of thunder in the sky, and the dark clouds below him broke open, and soaked that lonely planet with large drops of rain.


End file.
